Another chapter. This was originally to be split in two parts but in the end it just gelled better in one. William Michaels will not appear at any other time in this story. And this chapter title comes from 'Open Your Eyes' by Snow Patrol. 'Tis a great song. So that's it. Please review.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will.
Diary of William Michaels, Psychoanalyst. 05/06/2001.
Interviewed James Rider again today. Conducted a Rorschach test. At first he refused to look at the pictures. Then Hugh Bonnet pulled him from the room and "persuaded" him. The boy is barely sixteen but his face is covered in angry purple bruising. He's had stitches to his forehead since he came here and he walks as if he's concealing a limp. You have to look closely to see it but looking closer is my job.
His hand is wrapped in dirty bandaging and blood has dried and caked in his hair, lending the dark blond an even darker stain of red. He's covered in dirt. Hugh says it's because Rothman took away his shower privileges for non-compliance. He's kept in hand cuffs and ankle cuffs 24/7 and Hugh goes everywhere with him. This is because he tried to stab a nurse with a nail file during his physical.
I've tried to convince Hugh to remove the handcuffs while he's with me but Hugh refuses. He says I don't know what I'm doing. So I have to make do with what I have. And what I have is a very curious case.
James Rider. Born 21/07/1985. Parents both deceased. Raised by Yassen Gregorovich and Daniil Federov. No homosexual relationship between the two, Hugh assures me. Has Mathew Port as a fairy godfather. Port spent millions on raising James. Romantically involved with Port's daughter, Ella. Unusual for them to have sexual relationship. Both very young. Speaks fluent English, French, Russian, German, Spanish and Catalan. Some knowledge of Japanese and Polish. Skilled in martial arts and boxing. Hugh guesses he's a black belt but not really sure.
His posture is very good. Has he been instructed in acrobatics or dancing of some sort? He doesn't slouch and sits unnervingly straight in his seat.
He's very intense about everything. I try and watch him all the time but he stares at me. It's strange. He doesn't seem to blink as much as anyone else. He's withdrawn completely. He doesn't speak unless asked a direct question and prompted by Hugh to answer. Even then he's monosyllabic. Is it some kind of defence mechanism? I have another appointment with him tomorrow. I'll broach the subject with him then.
06/06/2001
"Ah, James. And Hugh. Sit down. How are things? Would either of you like a drink?" William Michaels asked, bustling around his office. He retrieved the file he'd been studying from his desk and tucked it back into his filing cabinet. James's folder was already on his desk, waiting to be studied in relation to its subject.
Hugh propelled James into his seat, the cuffs clinking as the teenager sat down. Hugh himself took a seat beside the door and waited for William to begin. William glanced over at the Frenchman and smiled, nodding.
"James, could you please put your hands palm down on the table? Please, James? James?" William asked calmly, his voice mimicking the thousands of psychologists who used a placid tone daily. James frowned at William and did as he'd been asked, resting his palms on the desk.
"Good boy, James. Now, would you like to tell me what you did today? James?" William asked, his tone without inflection. James sat in his chair and just stared at William as if he'd lost his mind. Hugh leaned forward to cuff the teenager but William gestured for him to sit back, which he did with unease.
"Alright. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. Now, I have some pictures I'd like you to look at. All you have to do is tell me what you see. Here. Why don't you try this one?" William said, sliding a Rorschach test across the table. James picked it up slowly and glanced down at it for a second before flicking it deftly back at William.
"Ink blots, that's what I see" James said, his tone dismissing any argument William could reply with. William shifted in his chair, his gaze flicking to Hugh, the ink blots and then back to James.
"But what do the blots look like, James? You must have seen Rorschach tests done before, James. You tell me-"
"The blots look like blots. You can ask me as many times as you like. They are blots. They will always be blots. If it makes you feel better to pretend that they're something more, go ahead. But don't expect me to indulge you" James bit out, each word a low snarl.
William frowned.
"Uh, okay. If that's, em, what you see then, uh, that's alright. Why don't you-"
"Excuse me, Mr. Michaels. I think I'd better take James to have a little, talk. If you don't mind?" Hugh interrupted, cutting the flustered doctor off. William nodded mutely and Hugh gripped James by the scruff and pulled him from his chair and out of the small office. William stared after them, struck dumb.
06/06/2001
Another session with James today. He told me the Rorschach test was nothing but ink blots. And he's right. He's absolutely right. I've seen people squinting at those tests for years, trying to put meaning to them. He dismissed them straight away. There's nothing but a black stain.
I'm looking at this the wrong way. Trying to find a meaning to go with him. But he's just...different. Perhaps he's ahead of the curve. Born before his time. What am I saying? Preliminary examinations suggest that he's not intellectually blessed. He's no genius. He's above average but nothing special. He's well trained in the practicals. His maths, history and science are good. But his intelligence seems to be off paper. Physical activities.
He can reason well. Tactically, he's gifted. He can project the image of being exceptionally intelligent and gifted. He's no scholar, though. His aural languages are better than his written. His spelling is atrocious. Possible dyslexia? Must investigate. I'd actually guess that his brother, Alexander, is more academic. But then again, James has led a different life from Alexander. From anyone I've ever encountered. If I had been raised under similar circumstances, would I be different?
This doesn't matter. I have another appointment with James tomorrow. I'm actually looking forward to it. What will I learn? Who knows. It definitely won't be boring though. Was surprised when James picked up Rorschach test without any violence needed to persuade him. Perhaps he's finally grasped the severity of his situation. I hope so.
He'll most likely be handed over to Marc Bonnet for Basic Training in two or three days and I'll lose him for two whole months. I predict he'll do well here, if Rothman can get him to stop clamming shut everything else. He's being kept in isolation still, in one of the cells in the basement. Hopefully I'll be able to arrange another physical check up for him soon. God knows he could use it.
07/06/2001
"James, you know what? Today I'd like to try something different. Let's talk. Just talk. I have a few questions I have to ask you and I'll write down your answers but other than that we can talk about anything you want to talk about. So, James, what do you want to talk about?"
"James?"
"James, could you please tell me what you want to talk about?"
Unwilling to answer. Subject glances at Hugh, as if he expects to be hit. Seems on edge today. Less settled. Even more intense. Unreadable as usual. Perspiring heavily. Eyes hazier than usual. Has he been drugged? Will question Hugh later.
"I don't like you"
Misplaced anger. Common in adolescent boys. Not unknown to place anger into one particular person or object. In this case, me. Possible resentment of Scorpia, embodied by me. Again, subject appears to have been drugged. Perspiring heavily now and squirming. Truth serum?
"O-kay. Can you explain, uh, why you don't like me?"
"Thirty something. Obviously never killed anyone. Sit in your office, demanding respect you haven't earned or deserved. Your hands are smooth. You've never done any kind of manual labour. You see my palms? They're rough, callused. I'm half your age and I've done things you wouldn't even dream about in your worst nightmares"
Observational skills obviously intact. Is this a trap? Why the sudden change in tactics? Often a shrug is the most response I can expect to receive. I'm intrigued. Will proceed gently. Don't want him clamming up again.
"And why are your plams rough, James? Are these things that you've done bad things? Do you sometimes have nightmares because of them?"
"No. I don't get nightmares. You see, my palms are rough because of Yassen. He used to make me dig these holes in the snow. He'd call them graves. Have you ever met Yassen? He's not a very pleasant man. He'd make me dig and dig until I would throw up with exhaustion. The shovel was longer than me and I would cry and cry and he'd kick snow back in, telling me he was going to bury me and leave me to die. He used to beat me and starve me, too. Have you ever had someone crucify you, Mr. Michaels?-
-First reference to me using my name.
"He used long, rusty nails and a big nasty hammer. There was blood everywhere. And I could feel every single thump. He put five in my right hand and then I passed out. He waited until I woke up to pull them out again. That's what I get for trying to run away"
Subject holds up right hand and shows me wide, angry red gouges. Story consistent with wounds. Must mention to doctor. Subject's pain threshold must be unusually high. Had heard stories about Gregorovich but none like this. Was general understanding that he refused to harm children.
"And the bad things you've done? Do you want to talk about those?"
"Am I right about you? You've never fired a gun, have you?"
Classic deflection. Doesn't want to talk about things he's done. Wants to keep the attention focused off himself.
"No, I have never fired a gun. I have some basic combat training but I was never any good at it. What about you, James? You've fired guns, haven't you? At people? Would you tell me about the guns you've fired please, James?"
"I'm sorry William, but I'm going to have to finish this up now. Julia wants a, uh, word with James. So we'd better go. I'm sure you can continue this tomorrow"
Hugh pulls subject up and they move to leave the room. Subject stumbles at the door and turns. Smiles at me. Gives me a slow wink.
"By the way, everything I just told you is bullshit. You actually think Yassen would try anything like that? You're an idiot. And I really, really don't like you"
Will write again tomorrow.
Part 2
The icy water rushed into Jamie's mouth, choking him, making him reel. He felt the strong arms haul him roughly out of the basin again and dump him on the floor while he sputtered desperately for air. He curled into a ball reflexively and tried to pull himself out of reach of the vice like fingers that hauled him to his feet and pulled him from the room.
He'd been drowning for an hour.
He was dumped into a new room, painting blindingly white. The tiles were cold under him and he tried to list the sections of the brain to steady himself. He couldn't think of even one. All he could think of was the icy touch below him. Now he could feel an arm. The throbbing pain in his hand. The water dripping from his hair and splashing to floor with a tiny plip. The pain was unwavering, unfaltering. There was no relief from the fiery burn.
People came in then. Jamie was kicked in the stomach and the head and then pulled up and hand cuffed to a chair. He tried to struggle but he hadn't eaten in days and his head hurt and his wrists were on fire. He received a blow to head from the end of a rifle and that ended any futile resistance he could offer.
"James. This is a pleasure. It's been a while. A week, in fact, since we talked last. And I have a few questions for you. Your psych results are distressing. You're a very un co-operative little boy" a familiar voice wafted through the pain. Jamie considered briefly why he was holding back tears and then remembered that when Yassen came for him he'd never hear the end of it if he'd cried in front of Julia Rothman.
"Not a question" Jamie croaked, his voice hoarse. He chuckled at his own wit, his throat aching. Someone slapped him once. Twice. Everything was very distant and foggy. He wondered if he was going to die. Would Yassen find his corpse? Or would it be Daniil who stumbled across him, dead?
"That's enough. He's on the brink of unconciousness. James, can you hear me?" she asked.
He nodded, knowing he was going to die if he didn't get food and medical attention soon. He was no longer sick but they'd given him some kind of drug and he felt feverish again. Maybe they'd already poisoned him and were waiting for him to die? Time seemed irrelevant. He couldn't measure things in minutes. How could it ever be half past exhaustion? Or a quarter to pain?
"Alright, good. We found a piece of paper on you when we found you in the airport. It's a letter and it's been ripped. It reads as follows: My Dear Son, Jamie. If you are reading this I'll have found you by now and you'll have many questions for me. You'll be angry and upset and hurt but you have to know before you act that I love you very, very much.
This does not excuse my absence for the past ten years and I can only offer my sincerest apology as compensation. I've never been very lyrical and I suppose this letter isn't going to make much difference to you. But I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. The Prodigal Son. I've never really appreciate the forgiving father. He's not teaching his son a lesson by welcoming him back with open arms. And now, ironically, I am the prodigal and I can only throw myself on your mercy. Even if you hate me, I hope you'll allow me the small mercy of loving you.
I'm selfish and awful but you are my son and I know that I have to come for you to get help in my most difficult mssion. It will be a family effort and I intend to enlist all the help I can get. It's taken me a long time to write this, I know. Ten years to grieve. I lost my wife. My sons. I tried to get both of you back. But I had no MI6 backing. They turned on me. Tried to kill me. I've been on the run with your uncle Ian for so long now.
I need to meet you, face to face. We have to talk. So
And that's where the letter ends. Did John Rider give you contact details?"
She set the piece of paper on the table and Jamie tried to shake his head, to deny ever reading it. But someone grabbed the back of his head and slammed him face down into the table. He heard the loud snap, saw vivid crimson blood spurt onto the table. One of the corners of the paper was stained and soaked. The colour was shocking. Enough to make Jamie freeze and stare.
"I'll ask you again. Did John Rider, your father, give you any contact details? An e-mail? A phone number? You can tell me now and things will be better for you. Or I can have you tortured and then thrown head first into basic training. So?"
Jamie looked up at her dumbly, uncomprehendingly. His vision was foggy now and he wondered if that bang had done it. Was he dying now? He had questions now, so many questions. He couldn't even see her face now. What was happening? What had they given him?
"Alright. FINE! THAT'S WHAT YOU CHOOSE!? Scissors, now" she snapped. His shoulders were grabbed. He was being held down against the table. And now something was cropping his hair. Rusty bladed scissors pulling every hair out with a shot of pain and some skin. It was hell, fiery hell. Tufts of darkening blond hair fell on the table top and Jamie exhaled, blowing one across the surface of the table.
"Now. Bring him back to his cell. And then in the morning he is going to start basic training with Marc and I don't give a damn what Zeljan Kurst has to say about it! You tell William Michaels that his psycho bullshit doesn't fly with me and James is no longer his concern. And for the love of God, am I talking to myself!? FIND JOHN RIDER! I want him dead before the next board meeting. You're all dismissed. Hugh, get this creature out of here!"
Jamie felt himself being dragged again but he decided it didn't matter anymore. He was going to die if Yassen didn't come soon. The letter was just a blip. He was never going to speak to his father, let alone meet him. Yassen would come for him and he would go home and things would be the same. And he would be able to forget what he'd seen. The blood soaked page, the blondish hairs and the drowning phantoms haunting him while he gasped for breath.
He was dying. He was definitely dying. That was, if he wasn't already dead.
Fin. Please review.
